


The Decline

by willgrahamchops



Series: Breaking Point [1]
Category: John Dies at the End - David Wong
Genre: Don't Buy Drugs From Mall Santa, John and Dave Investigate, M/M, Paranormal, Platonic Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:18:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willgrahamchops/pseuds/willgrahamchops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I'd never heard him make a sound like that. It was almost inhuman coming from John – John, who once drank an entire bottle of tabasco sauce and then got it all over the bathroom because he was laughing hysterically while he vomited. John, who fucked up an alternate dimension by aiming an uncontrollably shitting dog like a rocket launcher. John whimpered.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Decline

John and I made out once. There are a few versions of that story, though his bears no similarity to the actual event except that both can be described using the sentence 'John and I made out once.'

John's version, the story he tells at parties to ensure I never make any friends besides him, goes like this – and you have to picture him telling it while partially naked, because it doesn't have quite the same impact otherwise: “Dave tried to make out with me once,” he begins. He sips his beer to garner interest.

“See, I used to work as a Mall Santa, and I dunno if you know this, but Mall Santas make up more than half of our nation's drug traffickers.” Someone nods in agreement, usually Head. “It's 'cause they have easy access to the teens, and 'cause the beard makes them look trustworthy. I mean, would Santa Claus cut your coke with baby laxatives? Maybe, but dumbass kids don't know that.

“So anyway, I met this other Santa and we hit it off, and one day he tells me he has some new shit he wants me to try. And I'm like, 'can my buddy Dave come? He's been trying to find a drug that affects him, cause he's so fat that he can't metabolize anything currently on the market.' And so we're out in the woods behind the Macy's parking lot.

“Long story short, I end up ramping Santa's car off the loading bay. Dave's waiting for me when I land, his chins quivering with emotion. He just looks at me like that until it gets creepy, and then he lunges at me and tries to shove his tongue into my mouth. I had to fight him off. Floored him with a kick to the jaw. Knocked him out cold.

“Dave said it was just the drugs talking. He apologized and stuff, but here's the kicker: Santa had us taking fucking vitamin tablets. Of course I knew as soon as I took them, but Dave didn't even figure it out after I ramped the car.”

This is where he claps me on the back if I'm still in the room.

“He was real worried when I told him, scared that I wouldn't wanna hang out with him now that I knew he was a raging queer, but he forgot that I'm accepting of all cultures and races, even fat gay Mexicans like Dave. And I've learned to gently reject his sexual advances since then.”

And this is the part where I distract him, get him out of the room, and tell my version. 

Most people already know John and his tendency to spew bullshit, but just in case, let me preface this by saying I'm not fat, gay, or Mexican. I don't know why he says that. I can barely even grow facial hair.

In my story, I keep the Mall Santa thing, because John _did_ work as a Mall Santa once, at Macy's, which is free standing because Undisclosed doesn't have a real mall – just the abandoned one, and trust me when I say they don't hire Santas. John got fired for exposing himself in the women's dressing room. I keep the part with the drugs, because that's a pretty decent excuse for anything when it's up to John's friends, but I say that it was X and that Santa convinced us to kiss once, no tongue, to prove a point that I no longer recall. We did. After that, I say that John shat himself, which is true, just not in this context. 

Neither of those accounts have anything to do with the time we actually made out, which takes a lot more explanation and is frankly less believable than John's Santa conspiracy. 

It started, as most retarded things do, at Wally's.

~

This was after Amy left for college but before I shot the pizza guy with a crossbow, so, needless to say, I was pretty lonely without my girlfriend or my future Crossbow Therapist. Things happen when I'm lonely – we've been over this. Little David is on his way to Disney World, asking 'are we there yet?' And we're nowhere close, except now, Little David can't convince his dad to pull over and just go to some shitty water park instead, because Little David has a _girlfriend_ now and that's called _cheating_ \--

Sorry, I kind of lost that metaphor. What I mean is that I was suddenly very, very fascinated by titties solely because I wasn't allowed to touch any. That's why, when the woman I would later call Martha tracked me down at work and begged me to have a look at her possessed son, I agreed.

I'd gotten more than a few letters from the French family in the previous months. They were actually Polish; French was just the last name. Martha French insisted that her son Daniel was possessed by some sort of minor demon. The symptoms were pretty typical Exorcist – speaking in tongues, rotating head, irregular bowel movements – and that's why I never took her seriously. I get a lot of mail like that, and close to a hundred percent of it is utter attention-seeking bullshit. It's always something somebody saw in a movie. I've never actually seen The Exorcist, but I can give you a quick review right now: fuck The Exorcist. 

I must have gotten eight or ten letters, each one increasingly urgent – 'oh, he's eating small animals now!' – but I ignored them all. I ignored the emails too, and I blocked her number on my phone. I might not have done all that if I'd known all the facts in the first place: Martha French had an enormous rack. Like two perky, overfilled water balloons. Zeppelin enormous.

I knew the second she opened her mouth that she wasn't here to rent a Sandra Bullock movie.

“David Wong?” She asked in a breathy, excited voice. Nobody says my name like that unless they're insane or they're calling me because they think I'm one of the other one thousand, three hundred seventy-two David Wongs in the country.

The rational part of me knew that I had no chance with this woman, but Little David insisted I try anyway. I leaned on the counter nonchalantly. “What's it to you?” I asked.

“My name is Martha,” she said, oblivious to my jaded ex-cop act. “I've tried to contact you about my son, but I think someone's intercepting my mail.”

“The demon kid, right?” I slicked my hair back with my hand. “Yeah, there are some people out there who wouldn't want your story getting out, not even to me. Especially not to me.” _People named 'my trash can.'_

A very specific kind of relief spread across her face, the relief you feel when you find out a hot girl isn't calling you back only because her number changed, and she actually does want to talk to you. 

Just kidding; I've never felt that.

“I knew it,” she said. “He's been getting worse. He's--” she glanced around the store to make sure it was empty, but then paused and narrowed her eyes. “Wait, if you haven't been getting my letters, how did you know he was possessed?”

“I'm an expert, ma'am.”

She seemed to buy this. “Well, you're not going to believe _this_ ,” she said, leaning in closer. She was taller than me and I was leaning forward, so I was almost eye to eye with her assets. “He's been vomiting four or five times a day.”

I shrugged. “That's not necessarily demons. I know a girl – we call her cucumber, because sea cucumbers vomit up their--”

“Snakes,” she said.

“Pardon me?”

“He's been vomiting snakes.”

~

I never really liked the popularity, if you can call it that, but John ate it up. He spent a good three months convincing me to start a blog, and he was the one who bugged me to keep it updated. We made a deal not to investigate paranormal shit alone, and he respected that, which means he only broke it three or four times. And I never wanted to investigate paranormal shit, so you can imagine how excited he was when I told him about Martha and her hellspawn.

Excited enough that he kept glancing at the fridge while I was talking to him. He thought I didn't notice, but I didn't say anything. This part still makes me sick – way more sick than the gay shit. I saw him check the freezer while I was scouring the place for his Whitesnake CD, and I saw him shut it with a disappointed glare. John was checking the Soy Sauce container. 

The stuff only shows up in there when it wants to, but I followed his line of reasoning. We were going to investigate. This could be another huge conspiracy and the Sauce could need to use us for its own nefarious purposes – but it didn't, and the container was empty. That sinking feeling in my gut was because John would take it again – and I knew this already, but that never dulled the disgust -- if given the chance. I didn't _want_ to get involved in any of this bullshit, and my life sucked. I couldn't imagine how miserable he must have been that being controlled by the spiky black shit from planet X was a better alternative.

“So where's this milf live?” He shouted over Creedence Clearwater Revival, chipper as ever.

I slid into the passenger's seat and spent a minute positioning the boombox so that it wasn't crushing my nuts. “We're meeting at Prosperous Pizza,” so named because the owner's first language was Chinese.

“Good idea!” Yelled John. “Gotta have something to hide the cross in before we feed it to him. We can just slip it under the cheese!”

I took a second to process that. “No, we're gonna listen to her story and make sure it's not bullshit before we meet the kid.”

“What?” John shouted. If you recall, the Creedence tape was stuck in his console, on maximum volume.

“WE'RE GOING TO LISTEN TO HER STORY.” I repeated.

“LISTEN TO HER SNORING?” John asked.

I rolled my eyes. “LISTEN TO HER STORY.”

“WE'RE GOING TO PISS IN HER DELORIAN?”

I realized he was just being an asshole.

“This is because of the meat monster thing,” I said at a normal volume. “I'm not telling you what color her hair is, so we can compare what we see when we get there.” If she wasn't real, he would see her with whatever hair color he wanted to see. Normally we check with boobs, because I know he likes a nice big pair of sweater kittens while I prefer them small and perky, but I'd sort of already spoiled that. “Gotta make sure we don't have another Shelby on our hands.”

“Shelly,” John corrected.

“That's gotta help you out at parties,” I said. “The name thing.”

John nodded. “Second only to my muscular thighs.”

I nodded too. John did have muscular thighs.

“Did you bring your holy water?” He asked me.

I shook my head.

“Shame. We could have spiked her drink.”

“I really don't think she's a demon, John. Worst case, she doesn't even have a kid and just wants to have a kinky threesome with two younger dudes.”

“Wow, what's the best case?”

I shrugged. “She's only into me.”

~

Prosperous Pizza sold pizza so greasy that each slice rained when you picked it up. That's why John and I got wings. I had to admit, a big part of this first meeting was getting John to buy me food.

“Mrs. French.” I shook her hand. Very professional.

I turned to John to find him staring at her, eyes squinted in thought, absently licking the Hot off of a Hot Wing. I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off. “Brunette?” He asked.

“Yeah.”

“Green eyes, blue sweater, enormous--”

“Smile?” I cut in quickly. “Yeah. We're seeing the same person.” I turned to Martha, apologetic. “We've had a few instances of -- uh, demons, if you want to call them that, actually calling us for help. But don't worry; you're fine.” We had no way of knowing that aside from the hair color trick, but I wasn't about to let on to our incompetence. Let her think we know what we're doing, at least for a few minutes more.

And she did. She believed us for two whole plates of Hot Wings, believed us all the way to her cozy little house in the suburbs, and believed us some fresh coffee as we made ourselves at home.

The second she left the living room, there was a loud _thump_ upstairs. John and I exchanged nervous glances.

“That the kid?” I asked, unnecessarily.

John shrugged. “I hope so.”

Behind us, Martha bustled up the stairs. John poured the coffee for her, which she might have thought was considerate but I knew was a result of his complete disregard for other people's property. I began wishing I'd brought that holy water after all.

John leaned over and whispered, “Let me do the talking. I'm good with kids.” I nodded. He was right by default, because technically _I_ was the one who burned down that elementary school.

“This is Daniel,” Martha said. I jumped. Didn't hear her come downstairs.

“Hey, buddy,” John said as she led the kid around and to the couch.

“Daniel, this and John and David. They're doctors, and they just want to talk to you a little bit.”

John elbowed me. “Say hi, _Doctor Wong_.”

I looked up. My jaw dropped.

I'd seen that kid before, or something like him. He looked to be about eight, pale and stick-thin with wispy white-blonde hair thrown on as an afterthought, a high forehead and a receding hairline. His limbs were too long, didn't seem attached quite right, and his face – there was something wrong with his face. Big, bulgy eyes, crooked nose. A Michael Jackson kind of face. A Robert North kind of face.

“I hate to do this again, John--” I didn't even have to finish my sentence.

“He's skinny and blonde.” And he turned to Martha. “Ma'am,” John said, “I think there's something wrong with your son.”

I glanced around the room, looking for potential weapons. All I saw was an end table and a box of crayons. I pictured myself jamming crayons into the kid's eyes. My gaze settled back on Martha, who looked –

“Excuse me,” she all but snarled. “Daniel is on the _spectrum_.”

Pissed off. She looked pissed off.

John nodded sagely. “The color spectrum, of course. I understand that--”

“The autism spectrum.”

I looked at John. John looked at me. “Oh,” I said.

The kid was doing this weird thing with his hands, twisting his fingers around each other in a way that didn't look possible, like an optical illusion.

“Something wrong besides that,” said John.

Martha's jaw dropped in shock. I wanted to apologize, but I'd probably just fuck things up even more, so instead I just waited for her to tell us off. We _are_ horribly insensitive, I guess. I prepared for her rebuttal. And waited.

She screamed.

Shrill, painful. Undiluted human terror. John and I whirled around to see what she was looking at, but there was nothing. Back to the kid. I was suddenly sure that the kid's fingers were broken. That he broke his own fingers, bent them almost entirely backward. But Martha wasn't even looking at him; her gaze was fixed on blank space.

“ _Stop it,_ ” she sobbed. She crumpled to the floor, hands clawing at her tear-streaked face. “Let me _down!_ ” She curled in on herself, burying her face between her knees, hands protectively clasped behind her neck. She fell silent.

_Snap._

The kid smiled, his thin lips pulled impossibly wide. He held up his hand. Another finger bent completely backwards.

I turned to John, but John wasn't looking at the kid. He was looking at me. Wide, crazy eyes.

I stepped back a few paces. “John?”

He flinched, and – this shit still keeps me up at night – fucking _whimpered_. I'd never heard him make a sound like that. It was almost inhuman coming from John – John, who once drank an entire bottle of tabasco sauce and then got it all over the bathroom because he was laughing hysterically while he vomited. John, who fucked up an alternate dimension by aiming an uncontrollably shitting dog like a rocket launcher. John whimpered.

I wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn't come, and he wasn't really seeing me anyway. Eyes glazed over. That much was obvious.

“Don't fucking touch me,” he said, low and dangerous.

“John?” What else was there to say?

Suddenly he jumped back, brutally hip checking the side table. He didn't seem to notice. “No,” he said, louder this time. “I'm sick of this. You lay a hand on me and I'm fucking gone.”

“John,” I pleaded. 

“GET THE FUCK AWAY!” He punched the lamp off the table. It was just hard plastic, so it didn't shatter, just clattered to the floor and rolled under the table.

Then John's eyes opened. Of course, they were already _open_ , but I mean that the fog lifted and he actually saw me again. I could tell. I immediately stepped forward – not too close, because John needs his space sometimes, but close enough that I could catch him if he fell. He didn't fall; he looked at me wide-eyed. Episode over.

“Fuck,” he croaked.

I nodded in agreement. “What happened? Are you--”

_Craaack._

Two more fingers. The kid wheezed and slammed his head against the wall hard enough that flakes of plaster rained down from the ceiling. I was about to lunge for him – for what purpose, I wasn't entirely sure – when John tackled me to the ground.

I glanced around for an incoming threat, for whatever it was he was saving me from, but there was nothing. The kid and his mom both remained motionless. I struggled to sit up, but John didn't give. He was heavier than me, stronger too, and easily pinned both my hands above my head with one of his. A high pitched ringing filled my ears, faint at first but growing with every passing second. I kicked blindly, hoping for the nuts. I opened my mouth to speak but it was already open, and I realized that I was screaming. I couldn't even hear myself over the ringing.

But I could hear John.

“Can't get it up, Wong?”

I froze. John's mouth moved but it wasn't his voice that came out. I recognized that voice. Still dreamt about it sometimes. Stopped sleeping when I did.

Now I understood where John was coming from, with the whimpering.

John laughed, not _his_ laugh, and then grabbed my hair and slammed it into the grimy tile floor. Pain shot down my spine. My vision split in two. He fumbled with my jeans.

I kicked and squirmed but it was useless; another guy had my hands. All I could see were tennis shoes, the dirt in the tile grout and bottoms of lockers. I was encased in the stale smell of sweat and mildew.

He shoved my pants down around my thighs. Underwear too. I tried to scream, but all that would come out was this pathetic gurgle, like I was choking on my own spit, and for my efforts he twisted a hand in my hair again and my head made contact with the floor. I was going to vomit.

And then he grabbed my limp cock and squeezed, a death grip, and I was crying, I knew I was, but I couldn't make it stop and I couldn't fucking breathe because my nose was running all down my face.

“Is this not romantic enough for you?” He crooned. “You need fucking roses or something?”

He forced my mouth open with his thumb. I tried to bite down but it was gone too fast, replaced by thumb and forefinger in the hollows of my cheeks, between my back teeth, so I couldn't bite without taking the skin off the insides of my mouth. Something wet and slimy. His tongue. He pulled back and spit in my mouth.

“Swallow it, faggot,” he grinned. Hand on my jaw. _Can't breath. Can't open mouth. Choking._ “Fucking do it, Wong.”

I resolved then and there that I was going to kill him. 

I was going to carve out his throat. That would be mercy. Wouldn't be so hard to bring my knife to school, small enough, get him alone. Surprise him.

John let up. He must have rolled off me because the weight was gone, but I couldn't force my eyes open. I turned to the side and vomited.

“Dave! Shit!”

My head throbbed. I felt like my brain had been run through a food processor, the kind that can turn carrots into orange paste in ten seconds. I tried to stand up but was hit by a wave of nausea, so I rolled over instead, half under the couch.

 _Craaack_ \--

“MOTHERFUCKER, NO!”

John tackled the kid.

I saw it happen out of the corner of my eye, almost too fast for me to process, definitely too fast for me to intervene. John reached for the fallen lamp. _Squelch._

The kid's skull caved in like a rotten orange. John yelled. I think it might have been a battle cry of some sort, or maybe he mangled his witty one-liner, but it sounded something like _FLARRGRIPPAL_ followed by a few partially formed curses. _Smat._ The kid no longer had a face.

I was too tired, too sick to pull him off, so I lay and watched while John murdered an autistic kid with a plastic lamp. I'll admit it wasn't one of my finest moments.

He only stopped when there was nothing left to cave in. Then he turned to me, grimacing, self-satisfied. The flecks of blood on his face looked black in the light.

But then I realized that they _were_ black. Thick and viscous, dripping down John's face like motor oil. 

“Thank Christ,” I breathed. John hadn't murdered an autistic kid after all.

John nodded. He took my meaning immediately.

John said, “You think Mom will remember him when she gets up?” She was still curled up against the wall, whatever she'd seen completely paralyzing her with fear.

I said, “I don't wanna stick around to find out.”

So we went back to John's place.

He suggested Denny's first, but half way there informed me that he was out of cash, and it's not like I was any better off. The rest of the ride to his apartment was silent save Creedence blaring over the engine and my thoughts, so not really silent at all, I guess. John didn't ask if I wanted to go home with him. We just went.

“Nachos?” He asked as soon as we stepped through the door. I shook my head. Not hungry – I guess Denny's was only appealing for the atmosphere, because I was sure that if I ate anything now my intestines would force themselves out of my mouth. John shrugged and made nachos. I watched from the couch. John makes nachos by dumping cheese and raw ground beef on chips and then microwaving it until the chips are soggy and the beef is cooked, and then he eats it with a fork – forget the intestine thing; if I ate that I was going to puke my asshole.

I watched him eat with morbid fascination. He wouldn't make eye contact. John didn't let anything come between him and his nachos – that's why I waited until he was finished before I even opened my mouth. I said, “So, I guess that was a bad idea.”

John noisily sucked melted cheese off his fork.

I said, “Sorry for dragging you into it.”

He shrugged and set his plate aside. “Not the worst idea we've ever had,” said John. “And we killed a sauce monster. So I'd call it a success.”

I grimaced. I didn't know what to say; or rather, I knew what to say but didn't know how John would react. 

Fuck it.

“When you were hallucinating--”

John cut me off. “My dad,” he said.

I looked at him, uncomprehending.

John said, “I thought you were my dad.”

“Oh.” And I suddenly missed the nachos.

Then something occurred to me. “I didn't actually hit you,” I said. But that was insensitive, so I immediately cringed and tried to backtrack. “I just mean, when it was _me_ , you actually physically--”

_Kissed me._

“--Hurt me. Or I thought you did.”

John nodded, and I wished he'd turn the TV on. Something to look at besides his face. “I did,” he confirmed. “But you know it wasn't actually me in there.” He shrugged. _No big deal._ I remembered that John doesn't give a fuck if I'm insensitive. Still.

“It didn't control me when _you_ were hallucinating.”

John looked at me like I was retarded – an expression I've come to know well – and said, “Dave, he broke _two_ fingers for you.”

“Oh,” I said again. He had a point. It was obvious in retrospect.

We sat in silence until I got uncomfortable and reached over him for the remote. Local interest stories would calm my nerves. This one was about a guy who grew really big vegetables, which might not sound too impressive except that the soil in Undisclosed is so polluted that it can barely support normal vegetables, or if it does, they come up toxic. Then again, the report never actually said his giant vegetables were edible. I pointed this out to John.

“ _My_ giant vegetable is edible,” said John. 

I didn't point out how unappealing an abnormally large, toxic gourd was as a euphemism – John was probably emotionally damaged. He needed that one.

And I was – I was damaged too, I guess, but that was nothing new. And it didn't matter. I'd already gotten my revenge, worse than slitting his throat like I planned. And there was Pineview, and I _technically_ met Amy there anyway, so that worked out. So reliving it – my worst moment, which I guess was worse than John's but not by much – wasn't so bad. At least it didn't progress very far. At least I didn't try to carve out John's eyes. 

And, oh shit, I suddenly realized _why._ John beat it. When it was him, he told his dad the fuck off and the thing stopped. I didn't challenge Billy. So John must have.

I wanted to say something. Thank him. But I didn't.

A few minutes later the sportscast came on – no more Wexler, what a shame – and I said, “That was some horror movie bullshit, wasn't it?”

John nodded vaguely. “So is everything.”

And it was. And something was still nagging at me, something I didn't want to say, this ridiculous compulsion to – I don't know. Rewrite the memories. I cut out Bobby's eyes, basically drove him to suicide, but I couldn't kill John. I didn't want to kill John. But I wanted some closure.

“John,” I said tentatively. His eyes were glazed by the glow of the television but snapped to me when I spoke. This was a really bad idea. This could fuck things up. I tread lightly. “I don't want this to be weird.”

He shrugged. “Why would it be weird?”

“I don't want to remember that every time I touch you.” I cringed. That was some pretty bad wording, and John didn't let it slide.

He narrowed his eyes. “You don't touch me,” he said. Not accusatory. Just confused.

“I just mean--” _whenever somebody calls me gay, whenever we share the last beer_ “--I don't wanna associate that with you.”

Sometimes I don't give John nearly enough credit. Yeah, he's borderline retarded and once broke his foot falling off the back of a pickup truck while Head ramped it, but he can be perceptive. Just sometimes. I don't wanna sound cliched here, but he's smart when it matters. And even when it doesn't matter, he doesn't second guess himself.

So John kissed me.

Despite _me fucking hinting that he should do it_ , it caught me completely off guard. My body attempted to become one with the couch. My brain didn't have time to react before it was over.

John held a level gaze, serious for once in his life. “Was that enough?” He asked.

It wasn't, and I was selfish. I surged forward and gripped the back of his neck so he couldn't pull away. Our teeth clacked together. Kissing John was not exactly a pleasant experience. He was sloppy and tasted like nachos and I'm not sure I've ever seen him brush his teeth, but I wasn't expecting it to to be pleasant. I didn't want it to be.

I pulled away panting, but it still wasn't enough; it was fucking self-flagellation, and so I tried again. Worried his bottom lip between my teeth until I realized he didn't give a fuck, and then bit down. John exhaled sharply into my mouth. His stubble rubbed my face raw. John kissed back at my pace; for every action, there was an equal but opposite reaction.

We kissed until Billy was gone, until John never even pinned me down. We kissed until he never spit in my mouth (except that wasn't true because he was sort of still doing that) and we kissed until I didn't want to gouge his eyes out, at least not for the same reasons, and I didn't know how long that was but I think it was a pretty long time. John was out of breath when I finally let him go. 

He was a wreck. I shuddered to think how I looked.

John nodded. He said, “Okay?”

And I nodded back. “Okay.”

And it was just me and John, and for once I didn't want to kill anybody.

So that's it. That's the story. You can see why I don't tell it at parties. The mall Santa thing is a much more cohesive narrative anyway, and it's even got a moral – don't buy drugs from Mall Santa. Mine doesn't have a moral. So John's story wins, even though it's a lie.

But I can't criticize. Hell, I'm the biggest liar there is, like, the Steven Spielberg of making shit up. I made shit up just now. Remember how at the beginning I said that John and I made out once? That's a lie. We made out three more times after that. Once in the bathroom of Waffle House after I had some sort of mental breakdown and drove my car into a ditch. Again on John's couch, him having a bad trip and me either calming him down or being a selfish asshole, depending on how you look at it. A few weeks after the apocalypse, on the couch in my government-issued trailer, with Amy in the other room. 

She knows. It's funny, because I sort of feel like _I_ don't even know, but Amy knows. She gets this sort of thing better than I do (and I think she's sorta into it, which I can't hold against her.) Anyway, it's not a gay thing – I mean it is, but that's not why we do it. I don't wanna fuck John, and I don't wanna take him out to dinner, and most of the time I don't even want to _talk_ to John. Except I do. And I want to kiss him, too. And if that doesn't make sense, fuck you. It helps way more than my crossbow therapist ever did.


End file.
